Hush, Little Harlequin
by Mertiya
Summary: Her friends have been urging Harley to get back in the dating pool, so when attractive billionaire Bruce Wayne asks her on a date, she says yes like a shot.  But is Harley really over Mister J?  And "Brucie" seems to have a hidden agenda...


**A/N: **This oneshot is what turned into a multi-chapter fic called _Siren Night_, but this was originally intended to be a more explicit oneshot, so I've reuploaded it as an M-rated oneshot. **  
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**Hush, Little Harlequin**

Harley giggled to herself as the night air rushed through her hair. Brucie sure knew how to show a girl a good time. After the rooftop dinner, which had been four courses, he had kissed her very gently and asked if she'd like to come back to Wayne Manor with him. Harley wasn't much for gentle kisses, and she did feel a little bit bad, but she and Mister J were on a cooling off period, and Cat and Ivy would be so _proud_ of her for going on a real date with somebody who wasn't Mister J.

"Thanks for a really nice evening, Brucie," she cooed, leaning toward him. Damn, it was a nice car. Surreptitiously she ran her fingers over the soft leather of the convertible, then squirmed happily, rubbing her bare lower thighs against it.

"Oh, you're welcome, Harley," he said graciously. "Anything for the woman who came to my rescue." He reached out and patted her arm.

"Oh, it was nothin'," she giggled, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "I just figured you went to bat for me at my parole board, so I oughta return the favor. I didn't do much, just knocked some sense into those guys who were trying to rob you."

"I am quite grateful," he said, with a smile that sent shivers down her spine. _Girl, you gotta get out more_. The vibrators just weren't cutting it any longer. Three nights ago, she'd tried to have some happy time and ended up sobbing for an hour over Mister J. Ivy had found her and told her that this was _not_ healthy. Well, at least Ivy couldn't say she wasn't _trying_. She glanced appreciatively at Brucie again. His rugged features and strong chiseled jaw were classically handsome, and he was a much bigger man than Mister J. Pity, he wasn't quite her type, but he was still good-looking as all hell. He probably wouldn't be too into any of the stuff Mister J was into, but that was also probably a good thing. It'd keep her mind off her Puddin' for a little while.

She squealed as a droplet of rain bounced into her face.

"I'm afraid the convertible wasn't such a great idea," he said apologetically, as they pulled onto the long gravel driveway leading up to Wayne Manor.

"Ooh, but it's kinda fun," Harley smiled. Being in a convertible was so—_special_. It made her feel all funny inside. And it was kind of liberating being on a date in her normal clothes and _not_ toting a gun and a bag of ammo. Less exciting, certainly, but with its own kind of charm.

The spattering droplets turned into full-fledged rain as they pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. Harley shrieked as cold water went down the back of her neck. Brucie laughed and vaulted out of the car, grabbing her hand. "Come on," he called. "We'll let Alfred bring the car in!"

She did an easy flip out of the car to land beside him, then paused. "Won't it be bad for the upholstery?"

He pulled her backwards against him, and she was suddenly very aware of how warm he was and how very thin her wet, white t-shirt was, and how—_interested_—he seemed to be.

"Never mind the upholstery," he growled in her ear, and then he had turned her effortlessly around and was kissing her, crushing her against the side of the car, not so gentle anymore. His hands were almost painfully tight on her upper arms as his tongue roughly parted her lips and forced entry.

_Mister J_. Tears sprang to her eyes even as her body responded to his ministrations. His hands dropped to her breasts and she found herself moaning in response, but there was still that moment of panic—of _wrongness_—but Ivy's voice echoed firmly in her ears, and she pushed the moment away, as he took her in his arms and carried her toward the manor.

They paused for a moment, dripping, in the hallway.

"Alfred!" Brucie called loudly, and a quiet, elderly man with white hair appeared almost from nowhere.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

Harley crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly and surprisingly conscious of the transparency of her t-shirt. Guys seeing her body wasn't something that usually bothered her, but this guy—it was as if he were her grandfather (if she'd had a grandfather). She blushed and felt shame coursing through her veins, but if the manservant noticed her, he gave no sign of having done so.

"Is the master bedroom presentable?"

"Indeed, Mr. Wayne." Was that a barely noticeable pause before the final syllable? Was it disapproval? Did he think she was—Harley blushed again. How many girls did Brucie bring home? What _sort_ of girls?

"Thank you, Alfred. Can you pull the car in?"

He took her arm and towed her toward the staircase even before Alfred's "Certainly, sir," began to issue from his mouth.

"Brucie," she whispered as they climbed the staircase, tugging on his arm. "I don't think he likes me."

"Oh, don't be silly," he answered carelessly.

"But…"

"Forget about Alfred, Harley." He pushed her against the wall and began to kiss her again. He guided her along it until she felt a door giving way behind her and they half-fell into the room and onto the bed. Harley's heart was going a mile a minute as he pushed her roughly down—_Mister J, teeth bared in a grin or a grimace, throwing her down onto the bed—_and began to wrestle her t-shirt up over her arms. Harley helped, wriggling, half-reaching for his buttons—_Mister J slapping her hand away, saying gutturally, "I'll do that,"—_but when Brucie didn't try to stop her, she took a deep breath—hard to do between the moans—and, with her tongue trapped nervously between her teeth, fumbled with the first button.

It took too long to pop open. He had her bra off and was reaching for her shorts by the time she was on the third button. Her hands, wet with rain and sweat, slipped, and the button popped off.

"Oh god I'm sorry," she mumbled around his tongue and winced, expecting a slap—_god what Mister J would do if she ruined his clothes!_ Brucie laughed. "Never mind the shirt," he said easily, and tore a hand down his front, spilling buttons across the bed. Harley giggled and squealed as his hands reached for her waistband.

Then she was on the bed and the clothing was gone and he was on top of her, his legs anchored around her, and she giggled coquettishly and bit her lip and as he began to thrust into her, she began to moan and squeal and _yes I'm doing it Ivy'll be so proud of me—_a little bland without quite as much pain as normal but still Brucie was pretty decent at this—and then he nipped at her lip, and she groaned and _Mister J would pound into her and bite her lip_—and then his fingers on her back were tightening and—_Mister J would rake his nails along her back as she screamed half in pain and half in exhilaration and Mister J would—Mister J would—Mister J—Mister J—_"Mistah J!"

And she lay on the bed and panted and wondered if she had said that out loud as Brucie continued to grunt and whisper something into her ear that somehow she couldn't quite catch…

When he rolled off her, slick with sweat, she looked at him with sleepy eyes and smiled nervously. "That was…real nice," she whispered awkwardly.

He patted her on the head. "Good," he said, oddly through his teeth. Harley sighed and slipped between the sheets and curled up, knees to her chest. Usually she tried to cuddle, but right now she just wanted to be within herself. She rocked herself a bit, trying to calm herself down. _I did it…_so why did she feel so—dirty?

"Go to sleep, Harley," Brucie murmured from behind her, and she wondered why he didn't try to touch her, but she was sleepy and his suggestion made sense, so she relaxed her (by now tentative) hold on consciousness and drifted away.

She woke to a knee in the small of her back as her arm was twisted up behind her. "Mistah J?" she said sleepily—it wouldn't be the first time he'd woken her that way—but the response came in a voice that she didn't recognize for a long moment, the calm, measured tones so different from what she'd heard of Brucie's warm chuckle.

"Where is she?"

"Wh-what?" she stammered in confusion, tasting a mouthful of pillow. She tried to turn over, but his weight pinned her on her front, and as he twisted harder, a twinge of pain shot through her left arm. "Ouch—you're hurting me," she whined.

"My dear Miss Quinzel, I am quite aware of that. Now—this can be over very shortly if you will just tell me a little something I need to know. Where is Catwoman?"

Catwoman? Why was he asking about Catwoman? Harley wriggled again, trying to get free, and he twisted her arm harder. "Why do you want to know?"

His breath was hot on her ear as he leaned forward and answered. "I don't know that that is any of your business, Miss Quinzel." He twisted her arm farther, and she hissed in her breath and wriggled. He sighed. "I _was_ hoping you would be sensible about this, but I suppose that's a little much to expect from the Clown's ditzy sidekick. Let me explain. To put this in a format your brain can probably comprehend: we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way."

There was a brief pause. Then he gave a quick twisting wrench. There was a snapping noise, and Harley howled in abrupt pain. Cold fear flooded her stomach. She tried to struggle, and he pressed down on the broken arm. She squealed in pain, trying to thrash one more time, before the pain overwhelmed her and she lay on the bed, panting.

"I'm not a patient man, Miss Quinzel, but I am a reasonable one. If you tell me where Catwoman is, I'll let you go—and I'll even patch up your arm into the bargain."

Tears were starting to her eyes, but she poked out her lip defiantly. "No!"

"No?" He punctuated the question with a wrench of the injured arm, and she gasped in pain again, then wriggled scornfully beneath him.

"Have to try harder than that to hurt me—I go around with Mister J." _Why don't you just tell him?_ Mister J hadn't broken her arm in months, and the one time it had happened, he hadn't really been _trying_. It gave her a sick, dizzy feeling to be at the mercy of somebody who was causing her pain for the sake of getting something from her instead of for the sake of helping her—pleasuring her—or pleasuring himself.

"Ah, yes, the Joker." A light laugh. "He was pitifully easy to manipulate. Such a useful tool, to frame for my murder."

He framed Mister J—"Shit. You're not Bruce Wayne. Shit."

"Ah, the light dawns." He knocked the side of her head with his knuckles, lightly at first, then hard enough to stun. "Then as you've probably by this time _finally_ realized who I am, you'll understand when I say—I want Catwoman because she took something of mine."

Hush. The maniac who'd half-killed Selina—who'd cut out her _heart_ to get back at Batsy. Harley shrieked in rage, and twisting herself to the limits of her flexibility, she shot a foot into the air and caught him on the ear. It was a glancing blow, but he rocked slightly under it, and his right hand tightened on her uninjured wrist, nails digging into the wrist.

"You are really starting to be a problem, Harleen. I have no interest in hurting you—I just want what's mine. But I can't have you kicking me like that."

His weight shifted on her back, and she heard a clattering noise. Then he yanked her head back to display a batarang he was calmly swinging between two fingers. The sight of it was enough to stir memories inside Harley that had her screaming and thrashing to get away again. Agony welled through her arm and brought her back to lying, panting, on her stomach.

"Interesting. This scares you more than the pain does." She looked up into his frighteningly smiling face. He was so calm. Mister J was never calm like that, and when he was hurting her, it was for her own good. And he wouldn't—he wouldn't—

"I'll even give you another chance, even after you so rudely lashed out at me like that. Where is the delicious Miss Kyle?"

"I—don't—know," Harley gritted out.

"Unfortunate. Oh, well." His weight shifted on her back again, and then pain flared through the back of her left knee, sharp enough that she screamed again. "That's one leg hamstrung. Shall I do the other as well? How much use do you think your 'Mister J' will have for a crippled sidekick?"

"Mistah J wouldn't care! He loves me!" She hit out blindly with her right arm, but he caught her hand, and this time pain flared in that as the batarang bit deeply and slowly into the palm. She whimpered, tears forming in her eyes and dripping slowly down her cheeks.

He laughed. "You're pathetic. You really think that maniac is capable of feeling love?"

Panic surged through her. "Mistah J loves me! He does! He does!"

His voice came to her ears, amused and dismissive. "If you say so. Now, are you going to tell me where she is?"

"I don't know! I don't know!"

"That's a pity." She felt his weight moving toward her other leg, and she tried desperately to struggle, but he struck her heavily in the side of her head, and she lay stunned on the bed as the same throbbing, awful pain flared in the other knee. She began to sob quietly.

"Please," she moaned. "Please let me go."

"Then _tell me where she is_." He punctuated each word with a shake of her broken arm, and she screamed again and opened her mouth to answer him, to just _tell him and make it stop Mister J never hurt me this badly_, but if she told him, he'd do this to Cat.

"I can't," she whimpered, and then screamed as his strong hands took her arm and there was another snap, and another.

"Can't?"

Through the haze of pain, she heard an odd mewling noise, like an abandoned kitten. Her throat was vibrating, and she was sniveling, but somehow she managed to choke out, "C-compound fracture. Had that before."

"Have you now? Well, I've never expected the Joker to be careful with his toys. Now _where is she_?"

His voice was deepened and made harsher by rage this time, and it sounded so very familiar that she began to laugh, a high-pitched hysterical gurgle that was half a scream and half a giggle.

"You think this is funny?"

"Y-you sound just like Batsy," she wept, and suddenly he had dragged her head back to face him, jarring her injured arm. His eyes were glittering dangerously.

"Dear Bruce," he said meditatively, licking his lips and holding out the batarang. "His toys are so useful."

The moment when that piece of information clicked was like a physical shock. "B-bruce Wayne is—"

He laughed, low in his throat. "Oh, you didn't know that? Where did you think I got this? Well, no harm done. And let me explain something, before I get back to interrogating you."

He placed the batarang almost delicately at the corner of her mouth, and before she knew what he was doing, ripped her cheek open ragged and bleeding in an explosion of pain. "I'm sure your Mister J will thank me when he sees this," he whispered. "Now, listen, Miss Quinzel—are you listening very carefully?"

She could do nothing but moan out her assent.

"Good. I am _nothing_ like Bruce. He stole everything from me, and for that he will pay. We are nothing alike, except—" he chuckled. "—except in certain purely physical ways."

She stared at him and panted, tasting copious amounts of copper blood in her mouth.

"He's quite the ladies' man, is Bruce. Although I expect he usually has better taste than I was forced to display tonight, you little whore."

Why did the _word_ hurt? She moaned and wriggled and cried and suddenly found herself wishing that he would just _kill_ her. Anything to make it all stop. And she _would not_ tell him. She would _never_ tell him anything. Even if there wasn't anything else she could do, she could frustrate him in that one thing.

"Now back to tonight's real endeavor. Where is Catwoman?"

"I don't know," she panted. He shoved her head down forcefully against the pillow, and she tried to gasp for air and found she couldn't. Her cheek screamed in pain, and her lungs began to burn. Finally, just before darkness threatened to surround her, he yanked her head up again, and she gasped desperately for half an instant before he forced her back down.

"I really don't have time for this, Miss Quinzel. It is beginning to look as if I'll have more luck just searching her out myself. Now, honestly, why don't you just tell me where she is and spare yourself all this pain? I'll even patch you all up. I'm a good enough surgeon you'll probably even be able to walk again." He yanked her head up again, and she gasped. "What do you say?"

"She's my friend," she said desperately.

He laughed. "Your friend. Oh, yes, Miss Selina Kyle is so well-known for looking out for other people than herself. Fascinating. I can't believe I came across the one little criminal slut who wouldn't sell anyone out faster than you can say boo."

"I'm not a slut," she sobbed.

"Words are _still_ hurting you? I would think you'd be more worried about the blade." He traced it down her injured arm, and she screamed again. "And not a slut? I thought you were so faithful to your dear Mister J."

She was shuddering with pain and hurt and anger. "At least he's better in bed than _you_ are."

He smirked. "Funnily enough, that isn't something I particularly care about. Now. Are you going to tell me where Catwoman is or not?"

"N-n-not."

He sighed. "Oh, well. At this point it becomes inexpedient to keep you alive. God, did you have to bleed all over the sheets? I'll have to get Alfred to do something about—what was that?" He turned his head. "Did you hear something?" He snickered when Harley whimpered, feeling adrenaline building in the pit of her stomach. She tried to struggle weakly, but he leaned on her shattered arm, and she gave in with a moan.

He yanked her head back, carefully set the batarang against her throat, then paused again. This time she heard the soft scratching noise as well. He made a frustrated noise and threw her down roughly. "Just a minute," he said, getting up. As his weight left her back, Harley tried to move, but pain shot through her, and he glanced back. "Now, now," he said. "No trying to escape." Then he flipped the batarang once, caught it, and drove it down through her bleeding right hand. She arched her back and screamed, but he was moving away from her, no longer paying attention. As he exited the door, she heard a startled exclamation and several thuds.

Then, through the red haze that threatened to descend on her, she heard footsteps, and a horrified intake of breath.

"Oh god—Harley—" Catwoman's horrified voice spoke quite close to her, and she blinked up and managed to turn her head toward her friend.

"I didn't tell him where you were," she whispered, trying to smile, but the motion caught the cut in the side of her cheek, and she sobbed instead.

"Oh my god, Harley, what's he _done_ to you? Hold on, hold on, it's going to be okay…_Ivy, for god's sake call an ambulance!_"

As Cat sat down beside her, Harley managed to whisper again, "I didn't tell him."

Selina stroked her hair gently back from her forehead. "Of course you didn't, Harls. We're _friends_."


End file.
